


The End of the Season

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Drama, Fix-It, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-03-02
Updated: 1999-03-02
Packaged: 2018-11-11 03:49:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11140473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: Faced with a hard choice, Fraser and Ray travel back in time to discover how they solved the same problem in A.D. 138. This story is a sequel toInuit Love.





	The End of the Season

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

(put title here)  
 **M/M, Drama/Fixit, rated RR (Real Ray). Spoiler:** This is set after  
the end of Season 3, following "The Call of the Wild." **Warning:**  
Those who are annoyed by the idea that Fraser's background includes the  
occasional practice of Pagan rituals (as we saw in the Season 2 episode,  
"The Mask"), and even more annoyed by the fact that Ray occasionally  
goes along with this, just for kicks (as we also saw in "The Mask"),  
should not read this story. Those who are annoyed by the idea that Fraser  
and Ray were lovers (and Pagan at that) in a previous lifetime should  
not read this story. But for those who just want **A Good Time** \--read  
away and warnings be damned! **:)**  


* * *

  


  
The End of the Season  
  


  
****

by  


  
****

Rupert Rouge  


_To everything there is a season,  
And a time to every purpose under heaven:  
A time to be born, and a time to die;  
_   
_A time to weep, and a time to laugh;  
A time to mourn, and a time to dance;  
_   
_A time to get, and a time to lose;  
A time to keep, and a time to cast away...  
_

  |   |   |   |   |   |   |   |   |   | _Ecclesiastes 3_  
---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---  
  
* * *

  
  
Ray Vecchio smiled with satisfaction as the big jet landed smoothly on  
the runway at O'Hare and with a final scream of its engines, cruised  
to a full stop. He was home again, back in Chicago after two months  
in Florida, and impatient to get on with his life...now that he was back  
on track again.  
  
Which he hadn't been, for a while. The night that Fraser had inadvertently  
blown his cover Ray had thought for one awful moment that he would have  
only seconds to live: but quick thinking on his part had pulled himself,  
Fraser, and Ray Kowalski out of the fire.  
  
And then came the excitement of tangling with Holloway Muldoon, who eluded  
the law, but not before putting a bullet into Vecchio. After that, Ray  
was forced to sweat it out in a hospital bed while Fraser and Kowalski  
went north to capture both Muldoon and Cyrus Bolt, who were now spending  
the rest of their lives in very poor accommodations, courtesy of Uncle  
Sam.  
  
Yes, Fraser and Kowalski had gone north--and stayed there. He'd heard  
through the 27th District grapevine, meaning his own sister, Frannie,  
that the two had gone looking for adventure, searching for the Hand of  
Franklin. The whereabouts of the remains of Sir John Franklin, lost  
in the Arctic on that ill-fated expedition more than a century ago, remained  
a mystery, but it was rumored that he was buried under the snow somewhere.  
  
Did they find Franklin's grave? Vecchio wondered as he left the plane  
and headed for Baggage Claim. He retrieved his suitcases from the carousel,  
stood in line for transportation into town, and got into a taxi, all  
on automatic pilot. His mind retraced the sequence of events that had  
led to his journey back here.  
  
When Fraser had blown his cover like that, the forced transition had  
been so sudden he'd felt blown out of the sky. In normal circumstances,  
there would have been a decompression period, during which the personality  
of Armando Langostini would have been deconstructed in several debriefings.  
And at the end he would have emerged like a mythical phoenix from ashes,  
Detective Ray Vecchio, Chicago cop, once more.  
  
But it hadn't been like that. He had been suddenly, even brutally thrown  
back into himself and found that he was unable to become Vecchio, a regular  
guy, again, instead of a Mafia heavyweight who lived like a king in the  
Nevada desert.  
  
Stella Kowalski saved his sanity. She was the most sympathetic woman  
he'd met in years---the difference between her and her predecessor, Louise  
St. Laurent, was so profound as to be almost laughable. He could pour  
out his problems, unabridged, to Stella, who not only listened, but advised.  
The same capacity for analysis that made her so effective at her job  
enabled her to help Ray sort himself out. Ray told her everything: his  
difficulty in reclaiming his own personality after most of a year under  
deep cover, his uncertainty as to where to pick up his life again, and  
most of all, the barrier that seemed to have arisen between him and Fraser.  
Not that it existed on Fraser's part: he'd seemed gratifyingly eager  
to pick up where they'd left off, all those months ago, before Ray disappeared.  
But to Ray there seemed to be some kind of wall between himself and his  
former lover: a glass wall, through which he could see Fraser, and Fraser  
could see him, which kept them from connecting.  


In Florida, all through the arrangements for buying the bowling alley that was to be her ticket out of the rat race, Stella listened...and in the end, pointed him back to Chicago.  


"Go back to work," she advised. "Now that you've been promoted because of the success of your deep cover operation, you can start back knowing you have the respect of everyone at the 27th. You have a reputation to live up to, and you need go on back and make it up with Fraser. And junk the inferiority complex," she added. "You don't need it any more."  
  
It was true. Freed, finally, of Carmine Vecchio's ghost--had it ever been a ghost at all, he wondered, or merely the manifestation of his own feelings of inadequacy?--Ray had at last acquired a sense of his place in the world. He continued with his train of thought as he paid off the taxi, hoisted his suitcases out of the trunk, and started up the path to the front porch of his house.  
  
For most of his life, Ray had felt like a failure. First and foremost, of course, he'd failed to win his father's approval while Carmine Vecchio was alive. He'd failed as a cop to win the respect of his peers, and failed again when his marriage to Ange broke up. But now he'd proved himself: to his peers, to his superiors, to Frank Zuko, the neighborhood thug, and yes, to Fraser, the man he admired most in the world. His deep cover operation, which resulted in the wholesale arrest of several Mafia kingpins, proved that Ray was no longer a run-of-the-mill cop. He was a man who could make things happen.  
  
Stella was right, as usual. He no longer needed the protective cover the inferiority complex gave him. Painful as they had been to live with, his feelings of inferiority had served as armor, fed the in-your-face, like-it-or-lump-it persona that had been Ray until he met Fraser: Fraser, who had picked him up, dusted him off, and given him partnership, friendship, and finally, love.  
  
And Fraser was back in town. When he'd called Frannie yesterday to let her know that he was coming back, she said the adventure in Canada was over and that both Fraser and Kowalski were back at work.  
  
_I'll be seeing him in a couple of hours, maybe even less. I'll tell him,_ Ray thought, and felt the sudden rush of joy in his heart. Fraser. _I'm back, Benny, and it's going to be like old times._  
  
  


  | * | * | * | * | * | * | * | * | * | * | *  
---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---  
  
  
It was strange to be back in Chicago again, even though he knew it was  
only for a month or so. Searching for the Hand of Franklin with Ray Kowalski  
had been an excellent adventure, one that had helped to erase the pain  
of the Muldoon-Bolt affair.  
  
Fraser paused in the act of sorting through the papers in his files at  
his office in the Canadian Consulate in Chicago to stare into space.  
The six weeks he'd spent slogging through the snows of his native land  
with Ray Kowalski had blotted out the bitter memories...temporarily.  
He'd already been back in Chicago for two weeks, and for every day of  
that time the memories came back, as fresh as if everything had happened  
yesterday.  
  
Too many things had happened, in fact. For one thing, he'd found out  
that his mother had been murdered; she hadn't simply died of an accident  
or disease, as he'd always assumed. Bob Fraser wouldn't talk about his  
late wife, Caroline, Benton's mother, and young Ben had been too intimidated  
by the uncommunicative grandparents who brought him up to ask questions.  
  
Finding out when he was thirty-six years old that his mother had been  
murdered--by Holloway Muldoon--had shaken him to the point where he felt  
he could no longer trust any of the assumptions by which he'd previously  
lived his life.  
  
But with Ray Kowalski's help, and that of Buck Frobisher, Inspector Thatcher,  
and a whole detachment of Royal Canadian Mounted Police, Holloway Muldoon  
and Cyrus Bolt had been foiled in their attempt to sell chemical weapons  
to the Russians. With Muldoon's arrest and the family secret out in  
the open, Bob Fraser's troubled spirit finally achieved the closure it  
sought. His ghost bade Benton Fraser goodbye, and went back to the realm  
of shades where it belonged.  
  
And Ray: Fraser still felt consumed by guilt when he remembered that  
he'd blown Ray's cover, just opened his mouth like a rookie and blundered.  
Ray had been justifiably furious, of course; and even though he seemed  
to get over it, Fraser was aware of the new constraint between them.  
Somehow, they simply could not get back on the old footing. For most  
of a year Fraser had felt disturbed that Ray would go undercover without  
telling him--moreover, without even letting him know that he was contemplating  
such a venture. After Ray resumed his place at the 27th District Police  
Station in Chicago, Fraser hoped they would regain their friendship--their  
 _more_ than friendship--but it hadn't worked out that way. After  
Muldoon's bullet put Ray Vecchio in a hospital bed, Fraser and Kowalski  
chased Muldoon to Canada; and after it was all over, the two of them  
went off in search of adventure.  
  
Ray, meanwhile, took off for Florida with Stella Kowalski. That still  
hurt.  
  
He was thinking too much, and his thoughts were so painful he wanted  
to scream. He'd nearly finished tidying up the files, anyway. The documents  
to be retained, he would transfer to Turnbull's keeping: the rest would  
go into the Consulate shredder. Fraser put the papers to be destroyed  
into a bag, and rose to leave the room.  
  
"Come on, Diefenbaker," he said to the wolf who lay sprawled  
on the floor in the corner of the office. "After I dispose of these,  
I'll take you for a walk and we'll get some dinner. Are you in the mood  
for Chinese this evening?"  
  
"How about Italian instead? That used to be your favorite."  
  
Fraser dropped the bag he was holding and stared at the man who had just  
loomed into view and now lounged--elegant in Armani, as always--in the  
doorway.  
  
"Ray!"  
  
"That's me."  
  
Fraser gaped. "But--but--I thought--"  
  
"I got back from Florida a couple of hours ago. I dumped everything  
at the house, then went by the station. They told me you'd be here."  
  
Fraser was beginning to regain his composure. He picked up the shred-bag  
off the floor again, unable to stop staring at Ray.  
  
He looked good. Better than good, fantastic. It wasn't just the nearness,  
even the _dearness_ of him: it wasn't just that Ray was physically  
present, making his heart beat faster, speeding up his pulse rate, filling  
his soul with delight. This was Ray as he used to be, the Ray he loved,  
who loved him in return. It was the warmth in his eyes and the fond  
half-smile on his lips that told Fraser that Ray had forgiven him everything,  
once again; and once again, as after the Victoria affair, was ready to  
start over.  
  
"I-I- I'm so glad to see you." For all he wanted to jump on  
top of his desk and declaim something passionate, like Elizabeth Barrett's  
sonnet "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways," all Fraser  
could manage to stammer was a simple sentence.  
  
Ray moved forward. "Come on, Benny," he said. "Wake  
up that mangy mutt and let's go out for some real Chicago Italian food.  
I'm starving after flying on that peanut airline."  
  
"Give me ten minutes to change out of this uniform into civvies,  
and we'll be off," Fraser promised.  
  
Half an hour later at the restaurant, Fraser brought up the question  
that had to be answered.  
  
"I don't wish to intrude," he began, stirring his iced tea,  
looking at the glass and not at Ray, "but I would very much like  
to know what you're doing in Chicago without Stella. Is she following  
you here?"  
  
Ray shook his head. "The thing with Stella was never anything but  
a business venture. It's true that we hit it off right away, for some  
weird reason. I've never in my life met a woman who understands the  
way Stella does. But we were never anything but friends, Benny."  
He looked Fraser in the eyes. "You do believe me, don't you?"  
  
Fraser melted. "Of course, Ray. It's just that it looked like  
an elopement."  
  
"Yeah, well..." Ray shrugged. "My head was somewhere  
in outer space when all that business broke. And I didn't feel too good  
there for a while--" he wriggled his shoulders, and Fraser remembered  
the bullet Ray had taken--"it was nice to kind of take it easy in  
the sun, when we weren't doing business. But although Stella told me  
what it is that I want, she doesn't really know what _she_ wants.  
Guy-wise, I mean. She knows she's sick of the rat race here, sick of  
dealing with perps and low-lifes--she wants to run a business of her  
own. So I invested in the bowling alley with her. I think she'll do  
very well. She's got drive, determination, and a lot of energy."  
  
"H'mm. So what is it that you want, Ray?"  
  
"You. My old job back. Life here in Chicago. The way it was before  
I left, the way it could be again."  
  
Their eyes met over the flickering candle in the straw-covered empty  
Chianti bottle on the table. There was even a red-checked tablecloth,  
Fraser noticed. Ray had spared no cliché in his quest to win  
back his lover.  
  
"There's one problem with that, Ray," Fraser said, as gently  
as he could. "I'm leaving. I've only got two weeks left in Chicago."  
  
"What!" Ray's eyes widened.  
  
"It's true, I'm afraid. You see, both Inspector Thatcher and I  
were offered promotions and transfers back to Canada for our work on  
the Bolt-Muldoon case. Canada, Ray!" Fraser leaned forward, eager  
to share his good news. "This is what I've been dreaming about  
for years. This is the end of the season of exile for me. Now I can  
go home!"  
  
"Ah, Benny," Ray said. He smiled slightly, but even in the  
half-light Fraser could see the pain in his eyes. "I didn't realize  
you were so homesick. Didn't you get enough of the snow when you were  
up there with Kowalski?"  
  
"No, but I did realize how happy I was to be back. It's bred in  
me, Ray. I loved being back in the snow, the air so cold, so clean,  
not like the air here..."  
  
"Yeah, I hear you. So you're taking the transfer?"  
  
"Yes, Ray. I've been offered the opportunity to do real police  
work again, field work, instead of being a glorified errand boy at the  
Consulate. Working with you saved my sanity while I've been assigned  
here. And frankly, Ray," Fraser hesitated. "At the risk of  
sounding crass, I could use the extra money that the promotion would  
bring. For years I've wanted to rebuild my father's cabin. I'd like  
to retire there when the time comes. That area holds a great many memories  
for me, as you know."  
  
"I know. Some of them pretty exciting, too, huh? Remember?"  
  
Both men smiled as they thought of the danger they'd survived at Fraser's  
cabin in the Yukon Territory. But then Ray's face grew pensive.  
  
Fraser watched him for a minute. "What about your plans, Ray?   
What will you do now?"  
  
"Oh, I'm coming back to work at the 27th, I've already talked to  
Welsh. With my promotion I'll be getting more money, too. Benny, we  
can look for a place of our own, and try to get back what we had before."  
  
Fraser shook his head. "It would have been wonderful, if this opportunity  
hadn't arisen. I need this transfer, Ray. I didn't think I'd ever see  
you again, thought you'd gone off with Stella to make a new life for  
yourself. And I discovered that I was even more homesick than I thought.  
I loved it up there, Ray. It's where I belong. And besides," he  
added, "Dief's homesick too."  
  
"Ah, well." Ray shrugged, then turned to watch the waiter  
approaching. "Here's our dinner."  
  
Ray hadn't been kidding when he said he was starving. He'd ordered _spaghetti  
bolognese_ for starters, followed by _zuppa di zucchini_ and  
 _osso buco_ , with _tiramisu_ for dessert, all washed down with  
a dry Italian red wine for him and iced tea for Fraser.  
  
"Coffee, Ray?" Fraser asked when they'd finished.  
  
"Tell you what. We'll go back to the Consulate and have Turnbull  
make us some coffee. It'll give him something to do."  
  
"He already has something to do, Ray, he's safeguarding Canadian  
interests from eleven p.m. until--"  
  
"Benny, I'm kidding! I'll make the damn coffee myself."  
  
  


  |   |   | * | * | * | * | * | * | * | * | *  
---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---  
  
  
  
The tray containing coffee carafe, sugar bowl, and cream jug reposed  
on Fraser's desk at the Consulate. Turnbull, blushing and stammering  
in his eagerness to be of service, had brought the coffee and then gone  
back to his duties. Fraser set his empty cup down on the table; Ray  
followed suit.  


Ray studied Fraser as the Mountie leaned back in his chair. Fraser was wearing the henley shirt again, the heather-blue one that emphasized the color of his eyes, under his well-worn leather jacket. In repose Benny's face was serious, but Ray's gaze came to rest on the curving lines on each side of Fraser's mouth, the lines that hollowed into dimples when Fraser smiled. He sighed as he remembered how often he had kissed them, in other, happier days.  
  
Under Ray's scrutiny, Fraser began to blush. "Is something wrong, Ray?"  
  
"Yes, Benny, something's very wrong." In two swift strides, Ray crossed the room, pulled the Mountie to his feet, and took him in his arms. "What can I do to convince you to stay in Chicago?"  
  
"Isn't it too late for that, Ray?"  


"Is it?" Ray's gaze lingered on his former lover's mouth, now beginning to curve into one of Benny's irresistible smiles. "Well, there's only one way to find out..."  
  
The blue depths of Fraser's eyes held all the turbulence of a summer storm at sea. Confusion, apprehension, and something else.  
  
"....isn't there?"  
  
He could feel the beating of Fraser's heart, hear the ragged intake of his breath.  
  
"We shouldn't," Fraser said, protesting as Ray slid his hands under the thin fabric of Fraser's shirt.  
  
"Yes, we should."  
  
Oh, the hot satin of Fraser's skin, the smoothness of it, as Ray's hands roamed over his lover's chest and back, and he tasted the sweetness of Benny's lips again. With a groan, Fraser wrapped his arms around Ray, pressing against him. Beside himself with love and longing, Ray whispered into Fraser's ear.  
  
"The magic is still there, Benny. For me, anyway. How about you?"  
  
Fraser's eyes were closed. "Yes, oh, yes. I'd forgotten how good it feels..."  
  
Ray laughed, low in his throat. "I have ways to make you remember."  
  
Half an hour later, disheveled and panting, Ray disengaged himself from Fraser's arms and rolled away to lie on his back. "My God, Benny, to think I used to complain about the bed in your apartment on West Racine! Making love on a bedroll laid out on the floor is ten times worse."  


"I'm sorry if you were uncomfortable, Ray. I'm so used to sleeping on the floor that it doesn't bother me."  
  
"Well, hell, Benny." Ray turned his head to look at him and Fraser, flushed with sexual satisfaction, smiled. "If we could get an apartment together, if you'd change your mind and stay here..."  
  
The Mountie was silent for a moment. Then, "Ray, why can't you come with me? Come with me to Canada. Then we don't have to part. You could apply for landed immigrant status and get a job. And we could have a little house of our own just outside the city, with plenty of wide open spaces for me and Dief, but plenty of conveniences for you..."  
  
Ray felt as if he'd had the very breath knocked out of him. "Ah, but Benny..." He searched for a tactful way to say what was on his mind. He didn't want to leave Chicago, not now. Not when he finally had the respect of his peers, not when Lieutenant Welsh himself nodded politely to him in acknowledgment of Ray's new status and solicited his opinion in staff meetings. And besides, Chicago was _home_.   
  
But there--to Benny, Canada was home. And the man was homesick, had finally admitted it after three years. So homesick that his eyes lit up when he mentioned the cold, clean air of the snow-covered land that had been his territory as a Mountie in the field. How could he ask Benny to stay here in Chicago with him, when the man so obviously longed to go back to his native land? And how mean-spirited it would be to deprive Fraser of his chance for promotion, for reinstatement in the good graces of the RCMP as it were, and the extra money that would help rebuild the cabin. _With an indoor toilet_ _this time,_ Ray thought before he could catch himself.  
  
But then, what would life be like in Chicago without Benny? Nothing. Zip. Zero. Life would have no meaning without Fraser to share it.  
  
Fraser was looking at him with troubled eyes. "Well, Ray, I take it that you don't want to go with me."  
  
"Benny! Don't think that. Give me a minute to get used to the idea. I just--well, I'm just thinking..."  
  
Fraser's face relaxed into a smile, and he slipped one arm around Ray's neck to bring him near for another kiss.  
  
"Take your time, I know it would involve a certain amount of culture shock for you." His voice sounded teasing, Ray was thankful to notice. He began to breathe more easily, but doubt still assailed him. How could he leave Chicago? How could he possibly leave everything he'd built up and start over again, somewhere else? He groaned and covered his face with his hands.  
  
"I wish I knew what the hell to do. I wish there was some easy answer. I want to go with you, and yet, I don't want to leave Chicago. If only I knew what to do!"  
  
"You don't want to leave Chicago...that means I would have to stay. I'm sure I could keep my job here, but I was so looking forward...Ray, I want to do real police work again while I'm still physically able."  
  
"I know, and I don't blame you for wanting that. God..." Ray sighed. He sat up. "What a problem! Stay, go, I don't know. What it boils down to, Benny, is that one of us will have to give up something if we want to stay together. And we do, don't we?"  
  
"Yes, Ray, we do."   
  
As Ray sat, brooding over the dilemma, he felt a light kiss at the back of his neck and shivered with the thrill of it. He sighed. "Other people must have had this same problem...wonder how they dealt with it."  
  
" _We_ might have had this problem before, in fact."  


Ray turned to look at his lover. "What're you talking about, Benny?"  
  
"I'm talking about ourselves in a previous lifetime. Remember? You were a military tribune in the army of Imperial Rome, and I was a Celtic barbarian, captured by your soldiers and brought to Cilurnum, the Roman fort at Hadrian's Wall."  
  
"Yeah, you're talking about that time we trance-journeyed and found we'd been friends and lovers almost two thousand years ago. You think we might have had this problem when you were Beinne Fothudain and I was Remus Marcellus Varro?"  
  
"Well..." Fraser's eyebrows popped up in the delightful way that Ray remembered. "We could go into another trance, travel back in time, and ask ourselves if the same problem arose for us then. Want to try it?"  
  
"Hell, yeah. I'll try anything, but--" Ray looked at Fraser. "--you go first, okay?"  
  
It took only a few minutes for Fraser to make the necessary arrangements. "I'll lie down on the bedroll, and you sit beside me, Ray. Is there enough light from the desk lamp for you to read from the book?"  
  
"Yes." Ray held the book, flipping through the pages to scan the text. "Okay. So all I have to do is read this part to you in a soft, soothing voice, and you'll go into the trance."  
  
"That's the way it's supposed to work. Go ahead."  


In the darkened room Ray's voice sounded low but distinct, like heavy raindrops splashing one by one into a pond in the stillness before a storm.  
  
"Close your eyes, Benny, and imagine yourself walking along a path. The path winds downward, deeper and deeper. Now the way before you is shrouded in mist...red mist, swirling and whirling in front of you, forming itself into clouds and curlicues, constantly shifting. And still you walk, down, down, going deeper and deeper. The color of the mist changes to orange, and it twirls before you, constantly forming and reforming itself into different shapes. And still you follow the path down, down, going ever deeper. Then yellow mist swirls around you, thick and shifting. Now the mist changes to green as you walk down, down, ever deeper along the path. The mist swirls around you in wreaths and swags, and changes to blue mist. You walk down through the blue mist...you are very comfortable now, very relaxed. Your mind is receptive to spirits from other times and other places. You walk down along the path and now the blue mist changes to violet mist. The violet mist swirls around you and parts to reveal the gates in front of you....you are now standing at the mist-gates, ready to enter. At the touch of your finger, the gates open silently to let you pass. You are very....deep now...very relaxed..  
  
"Now you pass through the gates to find yourself in a circular room, looking into a mirror. You step into the mirror, feeling amazingly light and free. You see yourself as you are now...relaxed, at peace. Mist swirls around the image of yourself and now the mist parts to reveal you as you were 5 years ago. How did you look then? Did you look different from the way you do now? Were you more harried then or more relaxed? Was your hair different? Did you have more energy or less energy then?  
  
"Now mist swirls over the image of yourself as you were 5 years ago and you see yourself as you were 15 years ago. How did you look then? Look at the image of yourself in the mirror. Were you carefree or troubled? Were you busy or relaxed? Were you heavier or lighter then? You see yourself as you were 15 years ago. Say goodbye to that self as the mist swirls once more, thick and fast, obscuring the image. And now you're going back beyond your lifetime...the mist is swirling through the mirror....the mist is different colors....a vague image begins to form out of the swirling colors and you know that this image is distant...you know that this memory is not from your present life....you watch as the image crystallizes. You put your hand to your cheek and the image before you does the same...you realize this image is you, but it is a you from the past. Slowly...softly...the image forms before you. The man you see looking back at you is Beinne Fothudain, of the Brigantes tribe. The year is A.D. 138; the place is Northumbria, in a province of the Roman Empire called Britannia....  
  
  


  |   |   | * | * | * | * | * | * | * | *  
---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---  
  
  
  
The momentous news and the letter from Rome arrived at the same time.  
Beinne stood beside Remus Marcellus Varro, the 23-year-old military tribune  
stationed at the Roman Army fort of Cilurnum, watching in excitement  
like everyone else as the cloud of dust on the horizon grew larger.   
After some minutes, the watchers in the tower could make out a small  
cavalcade of horsemen galloping toward them, their red horsehair plumes  
nodding in the stiff breeze blowing across the moors surrounding Hadrian's  
Wall. Beinne followed Remus as the latter hurried down the steep, narrow  
staircase to meet the strangers. As the Commandant of the fort happened  
to be visiting the Sixth Legion in Eboracum, the duty of welcoming the  
new arrivals devolved upon the highest-ranking officer present--in this  
case, Remus.  
  
" _Salve,_ centurion," Remus shouted, as the horsemen drew  
near. "What news of Rome?"  
  
The centurion dismounted, removed his helmet, bowed to every officer  
in the assembly, then straightened up. "I bring unfortunate news,  
tribune. The Emperor Hadrian is dead."  
  
A murmur rose at once from the assembly. Remus looked shocked, but managed  
to say, "When?"  
  
"July tenth, sir _._ "  
  
A month ago. "May the gods take him for their own," Remus  
murmured. "And who rules Rome now?"  
  
"The Emperor Antoninus Pius, Hadrian's heir, sir."  


There was a moment of silence. Then Remus lifted his head. "Centurion, bring your men into the fort for rest and refreshment. I'll send a messenger at once to Eboracum. Tonight we'll hold a ritual of remembrance to honor the great Hadrian and salute the new Emperor."   
  
"Thank you, tribune. But there's more." The centurion turned to his horse and reached inside his saddlebag. "I bring letters from Rome, sir, and one of them is addressed to you."  
  
Remus took the scroll from the centurion's outstretched hand. "Beinne, this is from my father! I recognize the seal. Come, let's go to my quarters and read it."  
  
Beinne's feeling of unease, present ever since they'd sighted the soldiers half an hour ago, intensified as he accompanied Remus to the latter's room. The long summer daylight still prevailed, so Remus was able to unroll the scroll and read it without lighting a lamp.   


Beinne watched him as he read, reflecting on the course of his life since being captured by the Romans three months ago.  
  
When the soldiers had found him up a tree, spying on the military post, and forced him down, he resisted with all the considerable strength of his twenty-three years; and when they dragged him up the hill into the fort and into the _principia_ to confront the military tribune, Beinne fought so hard that it took four legionaries to subdue him. He knew his fate was sealed, and was even contemplating suicide--if escape proved impossible--as soon as they left him alone. That is, until he saw Remus.  
  
He couldn't understand what was passing between the young tribune and his commanding officer, but he knew from the way the two kept glancing at him that it concerned himself. The look of disgust on the tribune's face when he contemplated his captive roused all of Beinne's Celtic temper. And yet, as he stared at his jailer, Beinne was conscious that two emotions were raging in him, and only one was ire: the other was simple lust.  
  
He wanted that tribune. Wanted him in bed or against a wall: face up, upside down, sideways, whatever. The Roman looked so clean, so utterly sure of himself, so _arrogant._ The polished metal of his cuirass and greaves, standard officers' armor of the best-equipped, best-trained fighting force the world had ever seen, glinted in the dull light of the overcast May afternoon. Rome ruled the civilized world and this snotty young man was Rome's representative--and a damned attractive one he was, too, with that hooked Roman nose. The fact that his dark hair was already thinning at the temples did nothing to detract from his looks. He was as tall as Beinne, with green eyes that studied the Celt as if he were a lower form of life.   
  
_If I could have you to myself for half an hour, I'd soon have you begging for what I could give you_ , Beinne thought with barely suppressed fury. From the increasingly respectful attitude of the soldiers who surrounded him he gathered that his future treatment was to be hospitable. _You just wait, you Roman dog_ , _I'll show you a thing or two_. How this was to be accomplished he did not know, but the hope of it made him stop struggling and let the soldiers lead him away to do with him as they would. He allowed his captors to cut his hair, shave off his beard and moustache, scrub him from head to foot, and dress him in strange clothes. He even submitted patiently to the tutelage of old Cassius, the tribune's servant, in basic Roman hygiene--including a lesson in how to wipe his ass clean with a wetted sponge on a long stick, instead of the handful of dried leaves he had been accustomed to using. When he and Remus met again the next morning and he saw the complete capitulation in the young tribune's eyes, it was all he could do not to fall down laughing.  
  
But annoyingly enough, over the course of the next two weeks Remus seemed unable to read any of the signals Beinne sent. That he would one day win Remus' heart Beinne did not doubt; knew too, that when they finally went to bed he would be the one to yield control. He didn't mind: Remus was a Roman, and for him taking the submissive role would be anathema. Beinne didn't care who fucked whom, as long as it happened--and the sooner, the better.  
  
And then the day came when the two of them just missed seeing each other at the baths, until finally, emerging from the cold pool, Beinne caught sight of Remus dodging around a corner. Out of sheer desperation Beinne followed Remus around the corner and kissed him, not yet having sufficient Latin to come right out and tell the tribune how he felt about him.  
  
What began as simple lust turned into love on both sides, and the Commandant's original intention of demanding ransom for the son of the Brigantian chief was soon abandoned. Beinne stayed at Cilurnum because he wanted to; even the return of the chief from his raiding forays along the coast could not prise Beinne from Remus' side. Beinne begged to be allowed to stay and complete his education in Roman ways at the fort, and Liam Fothudain--who, being no fool, well knew that Beinne's knowledge of Roman customs and language might prove an asset to the tribe in the event of a future war--had reluctantly agreed.  
  
"Mithras!" Remus' jaw dropped as he stared at the scroll. "Beinne, my brother is dead."  
  
So that was why the feeling of unease had been so strong, Beinne thought. He'd somehow known that the letter from home boded no good. "By the gods, I'm sorry to hear it, Re. How did it happen?"  
  
"A chariot accident, on the way home from a banquet." Remus sighed and stared into space. "Poor Caius. If I told him once, I told him a thousand times not to drive home drunk. Ah, well. I suppose I'd better see what else Pater has to say..."  
  
A moment later he said, "Wings of Mithras, this is heavy news. Beinne..."   
  
Remus looked so white that Beinne feared he might collapse. He took a step toward him, but Remus held up a hand to stop his progress.  
  
"Father says I have to go home and take Caius' place. It means I won't finish my tour of duty here, but he's cleared my compassionate leave with the next governor of Britannia--Lollius Urbicus is our neighbor in Rome, you see. And I have to get married."  
  
Remus stared out the window at the summer evening. "This is the end of the season of youth for me, Beinne. Father wants me to stand for election as _quaestor,_ so I can enter the Senate one day. Caius was in the Senate."  
  
Beinne felt as if someone had dealt him a death blow. Remus was leaving? Going home to Rome, the place he'd yearned for from the minute he set foot in cold, misty Britannia? And worst of all, entering into matrimony? For Remus it might be the end of the season of youth, but for Beinne, it was the end of the season of love, the end of the greatest happiness he'd ever known. Still, he managed to answer with dignity. "Congratulations, Re. This is what you always wanted, isn't it? I'll miss you like Hades, of course. When do you leave?"  
  
Remus held out the scroll, pointing to the final lines. "Read that, Beinne."  
  
Beinne took the scroll, unable to repress a slight shiver as he did so. Of all the things he'd done to make himself more acceptable, less of a barbarian in Remus' eyes, learning to read was the most frightening. The Druids adhered to an oral tradition and strictly forbade the encoding of knowledge in written form. It took twenty years of unremitting study for an aspirant to absorb the traditional knowledge and attain the rank of Druid or bard.   
  
If it became known within the Brigantes tribe that he had violated the edict against learning how to read and write, Beinne would be marked for sacrifice in a year when the crops failed or war threatened. In that event he would be taken away by the Druids, dressed in a robe of rough white wool, fed a final meal of hearth-baked bread and well water, and drugged with an infusion of mistletoe. And then, as daylight faded in the west, he would be led, blindfolded, to the edge of the fen. The cudgel that descended on the back of his head would blot consciousness from his brain, sparing him pain as well as the knowledge that he was being garroted, stabbed, and thrown into the cold waters of the marsh to finish dying.  
  
Reluctantly, he read aloud the final lines written on the scroll. "My son, you must start for Rome the next dawn after this letter reaches you. A ship awaits you at the harbor, and you will sail with the first fair wind. Your mother sends you her love, and your betrothed asks that you bring her some of the red woolen cloth for which Britannia is renowned. The blessing of Mercury, god of travelers, be upon you, Remus, my son. Your affectionate father, Aurelius Caius Varro."  
  
"So," Beinne said, amused. "Your mother sends her love and your betrothed wants you to bring her a present. Tell me about her."  
  
"Her name is Octavia, she's sixteen, and I've known her all her life. She's a real little firebrand, but I'll soon put a stop to that after we're married." Remus shrugged. "Don't think this is going to come between us, Beinne. You're going with me, of course."  
  
"Me? Going with you to Rome?" Beinne's eyes widened. In his whole life, he'd never thought of doing anything so exciting. War was dangerous and thrilling, but in a different category altogether. Even boar-hunting could hardly compare in excitement with a journey to Rome.  
  
"Certainly. After all the trouble my soldiers had capturing you, do you think I'm going to let you go?" Remus was irresistible when he started teasing, but Beinne wasn't going to let him get away with that one.  
  
"What if I refuse to go with you?"   
  
"Do you want me to die of a broken heart?" Remus crossed the room swiftly and took Beinne in his arms. "Rome captured you, but you've captured _me_ , my beautiful Beinne. I'm not letting you out of my sight, ever."  
  
He nuzzled Beinne's neck, then sought his mouth. After a time dusk fell, but no lamp was lit in Remus Marcellus Varro's quarters, and sounds were made, but not with words.  
  
  


  |   | * | * | * | * | * | * | * | * | * | *  
---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---  
  
  
Rome was the aroma of hot food from the bakeshops that lined every street,  
and those streets so filthy he and Remus had to use stepping-stones,  
thoughtfully provided by the city's public works office, to traverse  
them. Rome was block after block of _insulae_ , apartment buildings  
seven stories high, that housed the poor.  
  
Rome was the Forum Romanum, the large public meeting place where speeches  
were made, where the temples of Saturn, Vespasian, and Concord soared  
grandly into the air, vying for attention with the Basilica Julia and  
the temple of the Vestal Virgins. Clouds of blue, perfumed smoke from  
incense burned to please the gods wafted from the temples, causing people  
to choke or cough as they walked past.  
  
Rome was streets overflowing with people, jostling each other as they  
went about their business: ragged slaves, humble plebeians, richly dressed  
merchants, stately patricians draped in the white _togas_ that proclaimed  
both their citizenship and their class. Rome buzzed with the sounds  
of Latin, Greek, Aramaic, and other languages as citizens from all parts  
of the Empire converged on the city. The shouts of the street vendors,  
the groans of the slaves as they stumbled under the weight of the litters  
they carried, the cries of children at play, the neighing of horses,  
the sounds of hammer and chisel made by the workers on a hundred different  
public construction projects, all blended into a background of incessant  
noise.  
  
Rome was morning after morning of warm yellow sunlight that turned into  
white-hot days as the marble of Rome's buildings started giving back  
all the heat they had absorbed before midday. In the early afternoons  
Rome stood still for _siesta_ , and it was then that Remus, throbbing  
with heat and desire, would seek refuge in Beinne's cool arms. With the  
shutters drawn tight against the hot bright day outside, they would make  
love in the dimness of Beinne's room at the Villa Varro.  
  
Rome was the Flavian Ampitheatre, where the voices of 45,000 thousand  
people could be heard roaring their approval at the sight of a heavily  
armed _secutor_ , armed with helmet, shield, sword, fighting a _retiarius_ ,  
armed only with net and trident, to the death in gladatorial combat.  
  
Rome was the metallic tang of blood congealing on hot sand as the losers  
in gladitorial contests died in wave after wave of carnage. Beinne felt  
revolted by the spectacle. The sight of blood was as familiar to him  
as that of sudden death: a lifetime of hunting, occasional battles, and  
the inevitable accidents of life had accustomed him to that. It wasn't  
even the cruelty that disturbed him so much, for he had observed it in  
both war and nature. What made him flinch was the idea that Romans found  
such manifestations of cruelty entertaining.  
  
Rome was grandeur on a scale that he had never imagined, and decadence  
he had never before experienced.  
  
"Beinne, help me out," Remus said two weeks after their arrival  
in the city. "For my bachelor party, should I entertain the guys  
at the Circus Maximus or take them to the Flavian Ampitheatre to watch  
the new _bestiarius_? Apparently they've imported twenty lions  
and tigers from Africa for him to fight."  
  
"The Circus," Beinne said quickly. The chariot races in the  
huge round sports arena were always worth watching, and he enjoyed cheering  
for his favorite team, the Blues. Watching captive animals goaded into  
frenzy and then brutally killed was, in his opinion, no sport at all.  
  
"All right," Remus said, smiling at him fondly. He shifted  
a little on the couch on which he and Beinne reclined, waiting for _cena_ ,  
the midday meal, to begin. "How do you like Rome, Beinne?"  
  
"It's everything you said, Re, and more. It's most impressive."  
He could be honest about that, at least.  
  
"Isn't it?" Remus looked gratified. "No wonder a man's  
proudest boast is _civis Romanus sum_."  
  
Voices could be heard outside the _triclinium_ , the dining room  
in which Beinne and Remus were waiting, and in a moment, Aurelius Caius  
Varro and his wife Flavia entered, followed by slaves bearing the first  
course of shrimp, raw vegetables, and boiled eggs.  
  
Flavia Varro nodded to the young men as she reclined on the couch next  
to her husband. "Beinne, Octavia sent word this morning that she  
is very pleased with the red cloth you brought her from Britannia."  
  
"I'm glad she liked it," Beinne said, acknowledging the compliment.  
  
"Your father the chieftain was most generous in his gifts to our  
house," Aurelius Varro added. "The hunting dogs alone are  
worth a villa on Capri! I sent them to our farm in Tuscany. They'll  
do well there, and we'll all go hunting in a couple of weeks, right after  
the wine harvest."  
  
Beinne smiled modestly. Liam Fothudain, determined to show that his  
son and by extension himself, were people of some consequence, had sent  
not only red cloth and hunting dogs, but also pearl necklaces,silver  
drinking cups, lead roof tiles, tin, salt, and household pottery. He  
would even have included a pair of bears, had not Beinne dissuaded him.  
Remus' father could not know that the gifts that so delighted him were  
the result of two months' raiding along the coast, and Beinne would not  
be the one to tell him.  
  
"It's unfortunate that you have to have such a hurry-up wedding,  
Remus," Flavia remarked as she peeled an egg. "June is the  
traditional month for brides, but in view of the circumstances..."  
  
She sighed and looked away. Beinne knew she was thinking of Caius.   
He nudged Remus, who said, "Well, _mater_ , September is just  
as warm, and as long as Octavia is satisfied with the wedding arrangements,  
we don't have to worry about tradition."  
  
The wedding took place a week later. Remus, Beinne, and a slew of Remus'  
childhood friends got drunk at the Circus Maximus two days before the  
wedding and lost so much money betting against Diocles, the champion  
driver, they had to hit up their respective fathers to pay the I.O.U.'s.  
  
"What in the name of Jupiter possessed you to bet against _him_ ,  
of all people?" Aurelius Varro grumbled the next morning.  
  
Remus shrugged. "He's thirty, father. Most racing drivers get  
killed in their early twenties."  
  
Octavia reportedly was furious about the incident and when she learned  
that it had been Beinne who suggested going to the Circus Maximus in  
the first place, picked a quarrel with Remus in the atrium of the Varros'  
house the day before the wedding.  
  
Beinne, who was being shaved by one of the household slaves in a room  
off the atrium, was unable to escape and therefore forced to hear every  
word uttered by the loving couple.  
  
"You gambled away our honeymoon funds, you creep!" Octavia's  
voice, devoid of its usual sweetness, grated like millstones grinding  
wheat. "Now we won't be able to go to Capri, and it's your fault.  
Yours and that barbarian's!"  
  
"Watch that tongue, young lady," Remus said, in a tone more  
furious than Beinne had ever heard him use.  
  
"My tongue's not long enough for me to stick it out and watch it,  
thank you very much. And while we're on the subject of that barbarian,  
I hope you plan to dismiss him the minute we're married."  
  
"Dismiss him? What are you talking about? He's not mine to dismiss.  
He's a guest here."  
  
Octavia's voice became even more scornful. "A guest, my foot!   
We all know _exactly_ what he's doing here. He's your _concubinus_ ,  
and I want him _out_ of this house!"  
  
Remus' voice cut like a whip. "He is not my _concubinus_ ,  
he's the son of a chieftain and a guest of my father. In his own country  
his rank is equal to ours."  


Beinne had learned enough about Roman customs to know that a _concubinus_ was a male slave employed for the sole purpose of assuaging the sexual appetites of the young master of the house until his marriage; in fact, dismissing him from this particular post was often part of the marriage ceremony itself. He writhed at the thought that this was how at least one person perceived him, but reflected that it didn't really matter: there was only one person in Rome whose opinion was important. The others whose opinions mattered were far away in Britannia.  
  
Octavia uttered a peal of derisive laughter. "Don't try to pull the wool over my eyes, Remus. I've seen the way you look at him. You never look at _me_ like that."  
  
"Beinne is my friend," Remus said, enunciating each word slowly. "As such, he lives in my house with me. He will continue to do so after you and I are married. You are only a woman, and therefore unable to understand the meaning of the word 'friendship.'"  
  
There was a loud gasp. Then, "You haven't heard the last on this subject, Remus Marcellus Varro! I bid you good day."  
  
From the light sound of Octavia's sandals tapping the marble floor of the atrium and the ensuing silence, Beinne gathered that Remus was alone once more.   
  
"Damn bloody woman," Remus could be heard muttering. "Well, she'll learn soon enough. I intend to be the master in my own house, by Mithras' wings!"  
  
The next day Beinne, along with Aurelius and Flavia Varro and most of the household, accompanied Remus to Octavia's parents' villa. The bride, dressed in a special tunic and belt, and covered by a large, flame-colored veil, the _flammeum,_ waited there with the priest who would preside over the ceremony _._  
  
Beinne felt a peculiar pain in his heart as the _pronuba_ , the matron of honor, joined Octavia's right hand with Remus' right. Octavia and Remus were being connected in a way that he and Remus could never be, and the newly formed union was further cemented when both signed the contract.  
  
All through the rest of the ceremony, which involved sacrificing a pair of geese to Juno **,** the patron goddess of marriage and motherhood, and partaking of the wedding banquet, which involved no fewer than three full courses, Beinne resigned himself to the fact that he would inevitably be seeing much less of Remus. Perhaps Remus wouldn't even want him as a lover any more; it was hard to tell how a young man like Remus might be affected by such an important milestone as marriage.  
  
After the banquet, Remus, Beinne, and the rest of the Varro household, went back to the Varros' house for the next part of the ceremony.  
  
"I have to meet her at the door and carry her over the threshold when she arrives," Remus informed Beinne in a tone of resignation. "Then we're supposed to lock ourselves in the bridal chamber and Do It, while you and the others are singing your heads off outside."  
  
Beinne, not knowing quite where to look, said, "Ah."  
  
"But tomorrow night I won't be sleeping there," Remus went on. "I went ahead with this marriage to please _pater_ and _mater_ , but my heart's not in it. My heart is with you, Beinne."  
  
In the flickering light cast by the torches in front of the house, Beinne looked closely at his friend and lover. He would have liked to kiss Remus, but there were too many people around.  
  
"Tomorrow," Remus promised.  
  
Surprisingly enough, the new routine of the household fell into place as smoothly as beads on a string. One day, a week after the bride had taken up residence in the Villa Varro, Remus and Aurelius returned home after a hard day's campaigning. Remus was seeking election to the office of _quaestor_ as his entry into Roman politics. As a treasury official he would come into contact with Rome's most powerful citizens almost every day.  
  
Beinne had stayed at the villa that day because the drawing-master was coming to give him a lesson. With neither soldiering nor boar-hunting to occupy his time, Beinne was studying drawing, painting, and sculpture.  
  
Flavia, Beinne, Octavia, and assorted slaves moved into the atrium to welcome the returned _paterfamilias_ and his heir. Remus looked tired and careworn. He sighed heavily as he stood with arms outstretched to let the butler remove the woolen toga which, besides being a symbol of Roman citizenship, was hell to wear on a suffocatingly hot autumn day. But as he caught sight of Beinne, Remus' whole expression changed.   
  
His face lit up as he walked through the perfumed mist spraying from the fountain in the atrium, and he smiled as he said, voice low, "And how was _your_ day?"  
  
"Not bad, thank you, but you look as if you could use a drink. Let's go to my room for a cup of wine, and I'll show you my new drawing."  
  
"Lead the way," Remus said, turning. Then, as if noticing her for the first time, he said, "Good afternoon, Octavia. How are you?"  
  
"Very well, sir, and awaiting your presence," Octavia replied sweetly. But her black ringlets quivered and sheer hatred flashed from her slanting black eyes as she shot a look at Beinne. Translated into words, that look would have said, _I'm going to get rid of you if it's the last thing I ever do._  
  
  


  |   | * | * | * | * | * | * | * | * | * | *  
---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---  
  
  
"The image blurs and you find yourself standing before your own  
modern-day reflection...."  
  
Ray's voice penetrated Fraser's trance and he felt himself beginning  
to rise to surface consciousness once more. His eyes remained closed  
as he listened to Ray's soft voice.  
  
"You're breathing deeply, relaxed and comfortable...now I am going  
to count from one to three so that by the time I say number three, you  
will be able to open your eyes and feel wide awake. You will remember  
all that you have experienced...you will be rejuvenated and rested, as  
though you had taken a long peaceful nap.  
  
"We'll begin...one you are feeling very rested...you have this ability  
to awaken past life memories.  
  
"Two...you begin to feel energy and life flowing to every part of  
your body now...you begin to feel full of energy and vigor...you remember  
all that you have experienced...  
  
"Three....your entire body and soul feel refreshed...now open your  
eyes...you are feeling good."  
  
Fraser opened his eyes, held out his hand toward Ray. Ray took it and  
pulled him up to a sitting position.  
  
"Well!" Ray said.  
  
"Well," Fraser echoed. "I feel--I'm not sure how I feel.  
That was quite an action-packed past life."  
  
"That was one hell of a regression, Benny," Ray said. "And,"  
he added in a tone of deep satisfaction, "it looks like the country  
boy went to the big city. So we stay in Chicago."  
  
"Yes, Ray, that's the way it seems. We stay in Chicago."  
  
  
  


| * | * | * | * | * | * | * | * | * | *   
---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---  
  
  
  
So it was to be Chicago, after all. Fraser's heart was heavy the next  
morning as he contemplated his future. He loved Ray, of course he did,  
and he wanted to live with him. But in the eight hours a day he and  
Ray were apart, how was he, Fraser, going to cope with the deadly pointlessness  
of his work at the Consulate? Ray would let Fraser act as his unofficial  
partner after his day's duties were finished, of course, and that would  
help. But in the meantime there would be more than forty hours of dull  
tasks to occupy his time, work that neither taxed his keen brain nor  
drew on his tracking skills. And there was, of course, the question  
of the promotion, which he would now have to turn down. Fraser sighed.  
He would have enjoyed the prestige of that promotion and welcomed the  
extra pay. The work he did as Ray's unofficial partner was, of course,  
unpaid.  
  
 _Ah well, love demands sacrifice._ He must accept this new reality  
with grace and never by word or look betray how much it had cost him.  
Although his heart might yearn for the cold whiteness of the Yukon, although  
he might long for the silence of a winter forest or the small, awakening  
sounds of the woods in spring, he would not let Ray know, because then  
Ray would feel guilty.  
  
But perhaps...perhaps in the summers Ray would consent to go to the cabin  
with him for a couple of weeks. Perhaps, with the two of them combining  
their salaries, there would be enough extra to bring the cabin up to  
a reasonable standard of comfort for two men and a wolf. And perhaps--perhaps  
Ray could be persuaded to spend the week between Christmas and New Year  
in Canada, too, so that Fraser could go into wild country again, into  
Manitoba or Alberta or Saskatchewan, somewhere with clean, cold air and  
snow shining silver-white under a winter moon.  
  
But no sooner had he made up his mind to stay in Chicago than Fate intervened  
once more, in the form of a pale tan envelope, stamped "Confidential"  
and bearing the return address of RCMP Headquarters in Ottawa, delivered  
to his desk the next day. Puzzled, Fraser opened it. His cases at the  
moment were routine; none of them contained anything of a sensitive nature.  
But after he removed the letter from the envelope and read it, he sat  
staring in front of him, his mind whirling with questions.  
  
The letter informed him that a memorial plaque was planned for the RCMP  
chapel at the Training Depot in Regina. It was to be a metal plaque  
containing the names of all members slain in the course of duty in the  
one hundred and twenty-five years of the RCMP's proud history. Each  
name would be engraved in large, elegant script, and one of the names  
would be that of Robert Fraser...  
  
...except that a cloud hung over Robert Fraser's legend. Had he or had  
he not accepted bribes to keep quiet about Phase I of the East Bay Power  
Project? The Territorial Trust bank showed deposits to an account bearing  
Robert Fraser's name. Of course, Chief Superintendent Underhill had  
assured Fraser years ago that no one had ever seen Bob Fraser make the  
deposits in person, and there was no record of any withdrawals, whether  
in person or by mail.  
  
However, the money was still in the Territorial Trust account. As long  
as it existed, a shadow hung over the reputation of the late Robert Fraser,  
and therefore his name could not be included in the honor roll of those  
who had given their lives for justice.  
  
A cold, wet nose butted against Fraser's left hand. Absently, he reached  
out to pat its owner on the head. "Hello, Dief. Where have you  
been all morning? Oh, Dief!" Fraser looked at his wolf in exasperation  
as he noticed the beads of sugar frosting the wolf's whiskers. "How  
many times have I told you not to go into the Consulate snack room and  
make a nuisance of yourself? People will begin to think you have no manners  
a-tall."  
  
Dief uttered a little growl that could have been back-talk.  
  
"Don't take that attitude, Diefenbaker. Just sit still and listen.  
I've had a letter this morning that changes everything."  
  
After hearing what Fraser had to say, Dief yelped his agreement with  
the decision.  
  
"I'll have to tell Ray right away," Fraser said. He stood  
up, reached for his Stetson. "And I'll have to tell him in person.  
This kind of news can't be given over the telephone. Come on, Dief,I  
need you for moral support. Ray isn't going to like this."  
  
  


  | * | *  | * | * | * | * | * | * | * | * | *   
---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---  
  
  
  
Ray didn't.  
  
"Hell, Benny, I thought it was all settled! You were going to stay  
here, and we'd look for a h---how long will all of this take?"  
  
"I don't know," Fraser said. "I'll have to conduct the  
investigation during my spare time, of course. The last time I talked  
to Headquarters, before we decided to stay in Chicago, they indicated  
there were several jobs open in the field. One of them was in the Yukon."  
  
"That's the place where your cabin is? And the Territorial Trust  
Bank?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
Ray sighed, closed the file folder in front of him. "Does this  
have to be a permanent move? I mean, you couldn't just go up there,  
do what you gotta do, and then come back?"  
  
Patiently, Fraser explained that he had already used up his accumulated  
leave time adventuring in the far north with Kowalski; that to conduct  
the investigation he would need to be on the spot, in the Yukon; and  
that once he accepted a full-time position there, he would be obliged  
to remain for at least two years.  
  
"Okay. Well..." Ray looked up, shrugged. "I guess this  
means I give notice to Welsh tomorrow morning. I need to tell Ma and  
the rest of the family first. You think I could get a job up there?"  
  
"Of course, Ray! With your qualifications you can get a job anywhere."  
Fraser smiled in relief and delight; for a few breathless moments he  
had seriously doubted that Ray would be willing to leave his life in  
Chicago and follow him to Canada. "In fact, I'm in a prime position  
to help you with that. I can start the paperwork immediately and check  
the job vacancies list in Whitehorse for you."  
  
"Great! All right, Benny." Ray stood up. "Well, it's  
quitting time anyway, so let me drop you off at the Consulate and then  
go home and break the news to Ma."  
  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
The telephone ringing in Fraser's office woke him half an hour before  
his normal rising time the next morning. Groggily, he reached for the  
receiver, wondering if it was a wrong number. He glanced at the heavy  
RCMP watch on his wrist as he put the receiver to his ear. Five-thirty.  
  
"Canadian Consulate, Deputy Liaison Officer Fraser speaking."  
  
"Benny..." the voice at the other end of the line was raspy,  
desperate-sounding.  
  
"Ray!" Fraser sat up, fully awake now. "Ray, what's wrong?"  
  
"Benny...I'm at the hospital. Ma had a heart attack during the  
night. She's in the Intensive Care Unit right now. Benny..."  
  
"Ray, I'll be right over. Okay? I'll come right over in a taxi.  
Where will you be?"  
  
"I'll be waiting for you on the ground floor, where everyone comes  
in to be admitted."  
  
Forty-five minutes later, Fraser was sitting at a table with Ray in the  
hospital cafeteria, drinking the dishwater that passed for coffee in  
that establishment. Ray pushed his cup away.  
  
"So Mrs. Vecchio is out of danger," Fraser said. "Thank  
God."  
  
"Yeah," Ray echoed. "Thank God. But Benny, this changes  
everything. I can't leave Chicago, not now. Ma needs me."  
  
Fraser put his hand over Ray's, not caring whether anyone noticed or  
not. "Of course, Ray. You must stay here."  
  
Ray looked straight at him. "But you're still going to go, aren't  
you?"  
  
Fraser pressed his lips together. He didn't want to hurt Ray, but going  
north to clear his father's name was something he had to do: Bob Fraser  
would have wanted his son to perform that last filial duty. _I loved  
my father more than he loved me,_ he thought. _There's nothing I  
wouldn't do for him. But perhaps he did love me, in his own way: he  
just put duty first._  
  
For a moment it crossed Fraser's mind that his half-sister Maggie MacKenzie  
might be able to take on the investigation; she'd been reinstated with  
full seniority in the RCMP and presumably had few claims on her spare  
time now that she'd brought her late husband's murderers to justice.  
But almost immediately he rejected the idea; first of all, it was up  
to him and no one else to settle this affair for once and all. Secondly,  
Maggie had only just discovered that Bob Fraser was her father: it would  
be kinder to let her keep thinking of him as the legend he was, untainted  
by even this false suggestion of scandal. There was no need to involve  
her, an innocent party, in this business.  
  
But now he said, "Yes, Ray. I'm sorry."  
  
Ray sighed. "Well, then...it looks like this is it, for us, huh?"  
His voice broke on the last words and he turned his head away.  
  
Fraser blinked back the tears that instantly pricked his eyes. He didn't  
want to lose control, especially in public, but the stillborn tears seemed  
to retreat into him, scalding his soul instead of his face. "I'm  
afraid so. Of course, we'll write, we'll phone--"  
  
"Oh, yeah," Ray said. He attempted a smile, but the expression  
in his eyes almost broke Fraser's heart. "Sure we will. Every  
day. And then it'll be every couple of days. And then it'll be a week,  
two weeks. And before you know it, we'll be two guys who shared a lot  
of adventures for three years, and then went their separate ways."  
  
Fraser said nothing; he couldn't. He looked down at the table, not wanting  
Ray to see the anguish in his eyes.  
  
When he was composed enough to look up again, he found Ray staring at  
him as if trying to memorize every feature of his face.  
  
"Oh, God, it's going to hurt to lose you, Benny." He shut  
his eyes for a moment, opened them again. "Come on." He stood  
up. "Let's get out of here before I disgrace myself. If you look  
at me with that big-eyed Mountie look, I'm going to lose it. I mean  
it, Fraser."  
  
"Very well, Ray."  
  
  
* * * * * * * * * * *  
  
On Saturday, the day before Fraser was due to fly to Whitehorse, Ray  
called to report that Mrs. Vecchio was much better. "Ma's going  
to recover just fine!" Ray sounded jubilant. "She's already  
home. She'll have to take it easy for a while, follow a special diet  
and exercise program, but she'll be fine. And guess what, Fraser?"  
  
"What, Ray? That's wonderful news. I'm so glad to hear she's better."  
  
Ray laughed. "Ma's going to turn into a Nethead! I bought her  
a laptop with a modem, so she can get on line and find a cardiac support  
group, not to mention chat rooms about all the hobbies she has. There's  
even an Italian grandma chat room, believe it or not."  
  
"She'll surpass us both in no time," Fraser predicted. The  
thought of Mrs. Vecchio surfing the Internet made him smile.  
  
"Oh, Fraser, I almost forgot, she said to thank you for the flowers.  
She's having a little nap right now, or she'd thank you herself."  
  
"That's fine, Ray. When she wakes up, tell her I said hello, will  
you?"  
  
"Sure. Hey, Benny, what do you say to a farewell dinner tonight?  
I know the station gave you that little going-away party, but I'd like  
to say goodbye when it's just the two of us."  
  
"I'd like that very much, Ray."  
  
"Pick you up at seven-thirty tonight, then."  
  
  
* * * * * * * * * * *  
  
After an excellent meal, this time at a steak restaurant near the Magnificent  
Mile, Fraser and Ray returned to the Consulate. "I can't stay up  
too late, Ray," Fraser said as he led the way into his office and  
turned on the light. "My plane leaves at eight tomorrow morning."  
  
They stood looking at each other. Fraser took a step toward Ray, intending  
to take him in his arms, when suddenly the awful knowledge that this  
would be the last time they would ever make love struck him with full  
force.  
  
Ray was watching him, not saying anything. Then, as if someone had flipped  
a switch, his mercurial face changed. "Hey, Benny, you know what?  
I never did a past-life regression of my own. We ought to do that just  
to square things up, don't you think? "  
  
"Of course, Ray." The relief of postponing the inevitable  
was so welcome that Fraser refrained from pointing out that doing another  
past-life regression wouldn't make any difference one way or the other.  
"I'll find the book while you get comfortable on the floor."  
  
"The floor's damn hard," Ray grumbled, but he laid out the  
bedroll and sank down on it.  
  
"So you've remarked before, Ray. How far back do you want to go?  
The same year, or after that, or...?"  
  
"Let's just pick up where we left off when you did yours."  
  
"Very well. Ready? Now close your eyes and imagine yourself walking  
along a path. The path winds downward, deeper and deeper..." Fraser's  
soft, deep voice went on for some minutes, putting Ray into deep trance.  
He glanced at his lover. Ray's breathing was slow and regular; he appeared  
perfectly relaxed.  
  
"Slowly...softly...the image forms before you," Fraser said,  
in quiet, measured tones. "The man you see before you is Remus  
Marcellus Varro, formerly a military tribune, recently elected _quaestor_  
of Rome. The time is October of the year A.D. 138..."  
  
  
* * * * * * * * * * *  
  
  
The sight of the Varro country estate, nestled at the foot of the brown  
Tuscan hills and bathed in the mellow-gold light of autumn, gladdened  
Remus' heart and he knew his father felt the same way. Although he now  
preferred city life, Remus had spent a great deal of time at the farm  
as a child, even helping with the wine and olive harvests when he was  
old enough. Life was pleasant at the farm; the men hunted during the  
day and spent the evenings telling stories over their wine, while the  
women gossiped and ordered the slaves around. Beinne quickly endeared  
himself to the children on the estate by whittling toys for them and  
teaching them the Brigantian battle cry--which, Remus remarked, would  
fry the brains of anyone not congenitally deaf, drunk, or already dead.  
  
For his own part, Remus realized that it was time he took an interest  
in farm matters: after all, the estate would be his one day. "How  
did we do with the wine harvest this year, father?" he asked during  
 _cena_ on the fourth day of their stay in Tuscany. The family was  
eating a dinner of wild game in the old part of the farmhouse; the olivewood  
logs burning in the old-fashioned fireplace built into the wall cast  
a pleasant fragrance into the room. The first course of roast pheasant  
had just finished, and now they were beginning on the venison, braised  
in a mouth-watering wine-and-honey sauce.  
  
"This is the best year we've ever had, so Marcus tells me,"  
Aurelius Varro said. "We've laid down enough barrels of wine to  
last not only this year, but the next."  
  
Flavia wrinkled her fastidious nose. "What a mess wine-making makes,  
though. Thank goodness it's nowhere near the house."  
  
"This is delicious venison," Aurelius Varro remarked. "Thanks  
entirely to the hunting dogs your father very kindly gave us, Beinne.  
I'll never forget the sight of Castor and Pollux, bringing down that  
stag. Here, Castor!"  
  
Castor crept forward, wagging his tail, and accepted the titbit from  
Aurelius Varro's hand; Pollux, half-asleep in another corner of the  
room, thumped his tail on the floor.  
  
"More wine, Vitellius," Remus said, beckoning the slave boy  
who stood, ready to pour from the wine jar.  
  
"We'll all have some," Octavia said.  
  
Remus glanced at her: she had been uncharacteristically silent throughout  
the meal.  
  
"Here, Vitellius, I'll hand you the cups one by one to fill them."  
Octavia stood up and stretched, giving the impression of one glad of  
activity after sitting still for so long.  
  
The conversation resumed as the cups were filled and handed back to their  
owners; as it happened, Beinne's was the last one to be handed back.  
Now considered to be one of the family, he no longer had the "first  
serving" that was due a guest.  
  
Beinne was about to raise the cup to his lips when Vitellius lurched  
against him sharply, causing the cup to fall out of his grasp onto the  
floor. Octavia and Flavia uttered shrieks of dismay.  
  
"What a mess!"  
  
"You clumsy little fool, Vitellius!"  
  
Remus caught sight of the dog creeping forward again. "Hey, Castor,  
stop lapping that up, you stupid beast! Wine's not good for y--"  
  
But it was too late. In the midst of lapping up the spilled wine with  
every appearance of enjoyment, Castor, suddenly whined and shuddered.  
His eyes became glassy, his gaze fixed: then he collapsed on the floor,  
shuddered once more, and was still.  
  
"By all the gods!" Horrified, Remus sprang to his feet. "He's  
dead--poisoned! Wings of Mithras, Beinne, that cup was meant for you!"  
  
Screams from the women, curses from the men. "Who did it?"  
Aurelius demanded. "Vitellius, what is the meaning of this? Come  
here, boy!"  
  
The boy cowered in a corner of the room, covering his face with his hands.  
Remus crossed the room and shook the boy's shoulder violently. "Did  
you poison that wine?"  
  
Aurelius Varro said, "In the name of Jupiter, what's going on?  
It must have only been one cup, because I've drunk from mine and I feel  
all right. Who else drank?"  
  
There was a chorus of "I did" from everyone present except  
Beinne.  
  
"How did you know that cup was poisoned? You knocked it from his  
hand deliberately, I saw you!" Remus, almost distraught by now,  
had the boy in a cruel grip. "Speak, Vitellius!"  
  
The boy looked up, tears streaming down his face. "I swear, sir,  
I didn't know the wine was poisoned. It was an accident, sir."  
  
"You little gutter rat," Remus said through clenched teeth.  
"You come with me, slave. I'll beat the truth out of you or my  
name's not Varro!"  
  
He dragged the boy out of the room, with Beinne following hard on his  
heels.  
  
"Bring me the whip, Marcus!" Remus shouted at the butler.  
  
In the stable yard, a white-faced Marcus handed Remus the whip, and bowed.  
  
"Tie his hands to the posts," Remus directed.  
  
Marcus tied Vitellius' hands to the two wooden posts, supported by a  
crossbar, where normally fish were hung to smoke over a fire. The boy  
trembled in every limb as Marcus ripped his tunic from his shoulders.  
  
"I'll give you one last chance," Remus bellowed. "Who  
poisoned the wine?"  
  
Between Vitellius' sobs they could just make out the words, "I-don't-know-sir."  
  
"All right, then," Remus said. He tightened his grip on the  
rawhide whip, raised his right arm.  
  
"Remus! Don't!"  
  
Beinne stepped between Remus and the slave.  
  
"Out of the way, Beinne! This boy is going to tell me the truth."  
  
"Don't beat him, Remus! He's a child."  
  
"Beinne, this is Rome. In Rome we discipline our slaves. Just  
get out of the way, please, and let me get on with it."  
  
"No. I won't."  
  
Beinne looked full into Remus' eyes and in his face Remus saw the same  
defiant look Beinne wore when he'd been captured, all those months ago.  
  
"Remus, if you want to beat someone, beat me. Don't beat him."  
  
"Don't be ridiculous, Beinne! You haven't done anything wrong.  
Get out of the way, I tell you!" Once again Remus raised his arm.  
  
" _Please_ , Re."  
  
Remus and Beinne locked stares for a long moment. The tension between  
them was almost palpable.  
  
"Re, I'll take the whipping for him," Beinne urged. "I'm  
a man, I can take it. This child can't."  
  
Beinne was offering him a way to save face. Remus could not afford to  
lose authority in front of the household slaves by abandoning the whole  
idea of the whipping. "All right," Remus said curtly. "But  
not here. In my room."  
  
To Marcus he said, "Cut him down. Keep him in the kitchen until  
I send for him. Come, Beinne, let's get this over with."  
  
In Remus' room, Beinne whipped off his tunic and stood naked. Turning  
his back to Remus, he said, "All right, Re. Do what you have to."  
  
The sight of his barbarian lover in the raw made Remus catch his breath.  
How could he flay that perfectly proportioned back, those adorable buttocks  
that had cushioned him so often as he covered Beinne while he lay on  
his stomach? Remus spun his lover around to face him. "Do you _want_  
me to do this?"  
  
Beinne took a deep breath, lifted his chin. "If you feel you must  
beat someone, do what you will."  
  
"Would you enjoy it?"  
  
"Are you crazy?" Beinne seemed bewildered by the question.  
"No."  
  
"Would _I_ enjoy it?" Remus said, as if to himself.  
  
Beinne's level gaze met his. "That's for you to say."  
  
"What if I said I would enjoy it--would you let me beat you?"  
Somehow, the idea of whipping Beinne, of raising welts along that alabaster-smooth  
back, watching them turn bright red with his blood, was turning him on.  
He could feel his breath growing short as his heart beat faster with  
excitement.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"You must really love me," Remus said, not taking his eyes  
from his lover's face, "if you would put yourself in my power so  
completely."  
  
"But I wouldn't be in your power, Re." Beinne looked calmly  
back at him. "You would be in mine."  
  
Remus paused with his arm in mid-air, still holding the whip, as he worked  
out Beinne's labyrinthine thought processes. Finally he recognized that  
Beinne understood a central fact about his lover: that Remus, in common  
with most Romans, carried a streak of cruelty in his nature. By letting  
Remus indulge his taste for inflicting punishment, Beinne would be the  
stronger of the two, because he himself possessed no such weakness.  
  
And then Remus realized that he couldn't do it. Suddenly, he was disgusted  
with himself: he was no better than the idle, useless mob that demanded  
circuses along with its bread and watched in blood-lustful bliss as lions  
tore Christians apart and gladiators fought to the death in the arena.  
  
He lowered his arm. "All right, Beinne, get dressed. On second  
thought, stay as you are--no,damn it, we don't have time for that right  
now. We need to find out who poisoned that wine."  
  
"I know one thing." Beinne's voice sounded muffled as he pulled  
the tunic over his head. "It wasn't the slave boy. He's innocent."  
  
" _How_ do you know that?"  
  
"Common sense, Remus. He has no reason to poison me--he never saw  
me until four days ago. Besides, he's a slave. He knows full well what  
the punishment would be for murdering a guest of his master."  
  
"Lucky for him that he lives in this day and age, and not twenty  
years ago," Remus remarked in a sour tone. "It was Emperor  
Hadrian who changed the old law that if a slave murdered his master,  
all the slaves in the house were executed, even if most of them were  
completely innocent."  
  
"Well, he didn't murder me. I think the best thing to do is question  
him gently. He's obviously very frightened."  
  
In the end, Remus allowed Beinne to interrogate Vitellius. The boy replied  
to Beinne's questions that his parents were dead, that he was a foundling,  
now aged thirteen, and had been a slave at the Varro farm since he was  
six. He was very happy living there, and enjoyed helping with the wine  
harvest.  
  
"You saved my life," Beinne said. "You should be rewarded  
for that. You knew the wine I was about to drink was poisoned, didn't  
you?"  
  
The boy looked down at his bare feet. "You're a good man, sir.  
I didn't want you to die."  
  
"Who did want me to die, Vitellius?"  
  
"I'll be killed if I tell you."  
  
"No, you won't. I'll protect you, even if you have to stay by my  
side night and day."  
  
The boy looked up, eyes brimming. "It was the young lady, sir.  
She knew I helped with the wine-making and asked me for sugar of lead  
to put in your wine."  
  
"Mithras!" Remus sprang forward. "This was Octavia's  
doing?"  
  
Sugar of lead, used in very small amounts in wine-making as a sweetener,  
naturally had no bitter taste to warn potential victims of danger. Beinne  
would have noticed nothing unusual if he had drunk the wine and very  
soon would have ceased to notice anything at all.  
  
"Just wait until I get my hands on her!" Remus was swept by  
a fury that had never before  
possessed him. Everything he saw seemed  
tinged with a red glow as he left the room in search of  
Octavia.  
He knew Octavia was jealous of Beinne and had reason to be, but he had  
never  
imagined she would stoop to this. And yet, it would have been  
a clever plan if it had worked:  
only Beinne would have been affected.  
It might have been supposed that he had died suddenly of  
a seizure  
or some kind of disease.  
  
And even with Vitellius there to foil Octavia's plot, she still might  
have escaped suspicion if it  
hadn't been for the unfortunate Castor,  
who'd evidently believed that anything left on the floor  
was a bonus  
for hard-working hunting dogs.  
  
At the door of Octavia's bedroom, he elbowed the serving-women out of  
the way and strode in to  
face her.  
  
"You slut. You vicious, evil, scheming _bitch_! I know it  
was you who tried to poison Beinne."  
  
His voice, low but filled with contempt, made Octavia shrink back against  
the wall. "I don't  
know what you're talking about."  
  
"You're the one who deserves the whip, not that slave boy."  
Remus advanced toward her, and  
although he was empty-handed, Octavia  
burst into tears.  
  
"I would be perfectly entitled to whip you instead of Vitellius.  
Or to divorce you. Or even kill  
you."  
  
Octavia shrieked. "I'm pregnant! I'm carrying your son! Oh, how  
I hate you, Remus, coming in  
here and upsetting me with your lies!"  
  
Remus regarded her in silence for a minute. Then he spoke, in a tone  
as cold as if he were  
passing sentence on a criminal. "You'd  
better hope you're safely delivered of a son and heir.  
That's the  
only thing keeping you alive right now." He turned to go, then  
half-turned back.  
"Since I seem to have done my duty toward  
the house of Varro, nothing more is required of me.  
I'll never share  
your bed again, Octavia."  
  
That night, in Remus' room, Beinne spoke the words Remus dreaded to hear.  
  
"Re, I'm going home."  
  
"Ah, Beinne..."  
  
"I hate to leave you, but it'll make things too awkward if I stay."  
Beinne dropped a kiss on  
Remus' jaw, just below his ear.  
  
Remus sighed. "You're right, but by all the gods, how am I going  
to live without you?"  
  
"You have responsibilities. You'll find a way, Remus. But,"  
Beinne drew Remus into his arms  
and whispered, "I'll love you  
all the rest of my life. I've never loved anyone the way I love you,  
Re. Think of me, sometimes, when the winter winds blow cold across the  
Forum."  
  
Three days later the Varro household returned to Rome and the day after  
that Beinne departed for  
Britannia, taking Vitellius with him.  
  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
  
The Roman road ran straight and true through the undulating Northumbrian  
countryside. His  
horses' hooves struck sparks from its smooth stone  
surface, and the wheels of his chariot and  
those of the vehicles  
behind him creaked in protest at the speed of their passage. It was a  
frosty  
morning in late October, with a red sun glittering behind  
the leafless silhouettes of the trees that dotted  
the bare hills.  
Remus turned his head to check the speed of the wagons and the formation  
of the troops marching behind him. Yes, everyone was present and accounted  
for. He enjoyed  
driving, and every clop of hoof against stone, every  
lurch of the chariot and creak of the  
wagon-wheels, was bringing  
him closer to Cilurnum.  
  
From there he would set out to find his true love, and would not rest  
until he did so.  
  
Beinne, beautiful Beinne, as tall and fair as the gods themselves. Beinne  
with the blue eyes that  
seemed to look into you and even through  
you, as if he saw more than existed in this world;  
Beinne, whose  
ears were so keen he could hear a leaf fall in the forest, whose stamina  
was so  
great that he could track a boar for hours without stopping  
to rest; whose hands could throw a  
spear, or shape a mass of wet  
clay into a likeness of his lover, or caress said lover's cock until  
that gentleman yelled his delight in three different languages.  
  
 _Beinne_ , Remus thought as his eyes scanned the moorland ahead of  
him. _Beinne, my love, I'm_  
 _coming back to you._  
  
His life in Rome, the life he'd so longed for during his tour of duty  
in Britannia, turned to dust in  
his mouth after Beinne's departure.  
He seemed to be looking at the city through new eyes--  
Beinne's eyes--and  
finding it lacking. Britannia might be chilly, but the air was sweet  
and  
breathable, not polluted with dust and smoke and perfume like  
the air of Rome. The terrain  
might be wild, devoid of civilized  
habitation, but it was innocent, in a way that Rome hadn't  
been for  
five centuries. The tribes might be savage, but they killed to defend  
themselves, not for  
the sheer joy of it. And most important of all,  
Rome did not contain Beinne Fothudain.  
  
Remus suddenly strained forward. What was up ahead on the road? It  
looked like--yes, a battle  
going on. He laid about the horses with  
his whip to make them gallop faster. Yes, now he could  
see that  
the fight appeared to be between a band of tribesmen--Parisii, by the  
colors of the  
checked cloaks they wore--and three Brigantians, in  
cloaks of their own tribal colors. The air  
rang with the clank of  
broadsword against broadsword and the unearthly yells of the antagonists.  
  
Remus frowned. The fact that the British tribes could not get along  
with each other certainly  
worked to Rome's advantage--if they ever  
did unite, the Empire would lose the province that was  
its biggest  
cash cow--but ten against three wasn't fair. Especially when one of  
the three valiant  
Brigantian fighters looked so like his lover.   
In fact...Remus urged the horses forward, unable to  
believe his eyes...by  
Mithras, it _was_ Beinne, fighting for his life!  
  
And beginning to tire, by the looks of it. It was the Celtic warrior's  
mission to fight until he  
dropped: the Celts had no fear of death.  
Was he to lose Beinne now, after enduring a wretched  
year without  
him, after bidding farewell to his old life and coming to Britannia to  
look for him?  
Not bloody likely.  
  
Turning his head to address the men behind him, Remus yelled "Battle  
formation!" He pulled  
up the horses, seized his shield and  
 _pilum_ , and jumped down from the chariot.  
  
Immediately, the soldiers hoisted the banner depicting the Roman eagle,  
detached themselves  
from the convoy, and marched toward the skirmish.  
  
On sighting this new enemy, the larger group of barbarians began to hurl  
spears toward them .  
Remus, leading the assault, ducked as a spear  
sailed over his head and yelled back at his men.  
" _Testudo!_ "  
  
The column of soldiers formed into a square: those on the outside turned  
their shields outward,  
those on the inside lifted their shields above  
their heads, end to end, to form a living tortoise that  
advanced  
inexorably on the barbarians, who appeared flummoxed as their spears  
bounced  
uselessly off the _testudo's_ metal shell.  
  
At Remus' signal, the formation fanned out into a single column that  
surrounded the barbarians.  
The Parisii fought bravely, but proved  
no match for the well-disciplined Roman troops; by the  
time the battle  
was over, six of the group lay dead on the ground, four had been taken  
into  
Roman custody, and the three Brigantians were standing at attention  
to pay their respects to their  
Roman rescuers.  
  
Remus took off his helmet, pulled up a corner of his cloak to wipe the  
sweat off his face, and  
walked up to Beinne, who was staring at him  
as if he couldn't believe his eyes.  
  
"Remus! What in the name of Brigantia are you doing here?"  
  
"I'm on my way to my duty station," Remus said, feasting his  
eyes on his friend. Beinne was  
wearing the traditional British _bracae_ ,  
shirt, and cloak, made of checkered wool cloth--well,  
that was natural  
enough, he could hardly be expected to run around in nothing but a tunic  
in this  
climate. He was clean-shaven, his hair a little longer than  
he had worn it in Rome, but not much;  
he looked clean and well fed,  
so life must be going well for him.  
  
"What's going on, Beinne? Was this just your unlucky day, or what?"  
  
"It started out that way," Beinne said, still devouring Remus  
with his eyes. "That man over  
there--" he indicated one  
of the survivors with a jerk of his head, "--is Zukolius, chief  
of the  
Parisii."  
  
Remus turned to look at the barbarian chief, a dark-haired man of medium  
height with full,  
sensual lips and heavy-lidded eyes. Zukolius'  
unwavering gaze never left Beinne. "What's his  
problem?"  
  
Beinne looked embarrassed. "He was trying to kidnap me. That's  
why he ambushed our hunting  
party."  
  
"Why does he want to kidnap you? Ransom?"  
  
"Not exactly," Beinne said, and blushed. "He, ah, wants  
me to go to bed with him. He's been  
after me on and off for years."  
  
"I'll kill him!" Remus drew his sword and began to advance  
on Zukolius, who promptly spat at  
him.  
  
"Remus, don't kill him. He didn't touch me. Just tell him to take  
himself off, and good  
riddance."  
  
"No problem, but he'll be given a warning first," Remus said.  
He gave the order, then turned  
back to Beinne, who was eyeing the  
soldiers and wagons.  
  
"Remus? What's all this? Not your luggage, surely."  
  
"Well, yes. The troops are to relieve some of the personnel currently  
stationed at Cilurnum  
who're due to retire. The rest of the stuff  
is for the villa I'm going to build. I've brought pipes  
for the  
hypocausts that are going to heat the floors, and marble for the bathroom.  
You can soak  
in my bath any time you want, Beinne."  
  
Beinne's shout of laughter was so loud that the ravens perching on a  
nearby tree limb flapped off,  
cawing their disgust. When he was  
able to speak again, he gasped out the words, "You haven't  
changed,  
Re."  
  
"Oh, I've changed in one way--but then, in another way I haven't."  
  
Beinne's eyebrows rose and he gazed at his friend with that innocent  
look that Remus loved. He  
always had the feeling that Beinne knew  
more than he let on. "What does that mean, Re?"  
  
"I've decided to make my career in Britannia. Military intelligence,  
you understand. I'll travel  
the length of the Wall, observing the  
activities of the tribes and writing reports to send back to  
Rome.  
I'll be based at Cilurnum, of course."  
  
"But you hate it here! There's nothing about this country that  
you like, Re."  
  
"Wrong. There's one thing I like--no, that I love. Beinne,"  
Remus said, "In one way I haven't  
changed at all. I still love  
you. I want to spend the rest of my life in this godforsaken place with  
you."  
  
The look of joy in Beinne's eyes made Remus feel bathed in love, light,  
warmth.  
  
Then the Brigantian frowned. "But Remus, what about Octavia?"  
  
"Divorced her. Mater is bringing up young Caius Remus Varro, and  
having the time of her life."  
  
"Congratulations! You must feel proud to be the father of a son."  
  
"Oh, well. I'll send for him when he's old enough to join me here.  
But what about you, Beinne?  
Are you still a bachelor?"  
  
"Well, no, as a matter of fact. My mother married me off to a woman  
named Brenna. She's a  
terrific horsewoman." Beinne added, "We're  
expecting a baby ourselves, soon."  
  
If Beinne had punched him in the stomach it could not have hurt more,  
or been more unexpected.  
"Oh."  
  
Beinne smiled. "Don't worry, Re." He tucked his arm through  
Remus' and began walking  
toward the chariot with him. "Our  
marriages aren't like yours. Brenna lives with her mother,  
and so  
will our child. And even though I'll be seeing a lot of them, I'll still  
have plenty of time  
to spend with you, soaking in your bath."  
  
  
* * * * * * * * *  
  
"The image blurs and you find yourself standing before your own  
modern-day reflection...."  
  
Ray felt himself traveling back through the mists of time. He didn't  
want to: he'd have liked to stay in Britannia, feeling Beinne's hard,  
warm body pressing against his in the chariot as they galloped toward  
Cilurnum, and getting a hard-on at the thought of being able to screw  
his Brigantian lover's brains out in the very near future.  
  
But as Fraser's soft voice went on through the steps of the recall, Ray  
obediently followed the instructions.  
  
"Three....your entire body and soul feel refreshed...now open your  
eyes...you are feeling good."  
  
He opened his eyes, sat up, stretched, noticing that the hard-on had  
traveled back to the present with him. "Well, who would have thought  
it would end like that? But it doesn't change anything for us, Benny.  
You still have to go, and I still have to stay."  
  
"Yes, Ray."  
  
He wanted to remember Fraser at this moment, in the small pool of light  
cast by the desk lamp: red plaid shirt stretched across broad shoulders,  
sleeves rolled up to the elbow, looking as desirable in this life as  
he had in the other, but with a sadness in his eyes that Ray wanted to  
banish. He reached for him. "Come here, Benny. In that other life  
I was just about to make love to you like never before. And there's  
no time like the present."  
  
Fraser's mouth quirked in a smile. "Who am I to argue with the  
might of Rome?"  
  


  |   | * | * | * | * | * | * | * | * | *  
---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---  
  
  
Ray was right, Fraser decided. He'd said that in the beginning, they'd  
call each other every day. And then every couple of days. And then  
it would become a week between calls, then two.  
  
He hadn't heard from Ray for a week now, and it was only a month ago  
that they'd parted. Only four weeks for Ray to forget him? Had he found  
someone else?  
  
His mind told him that if Ray had found a new love it was a matter for  
rejoicing, but his heart refused to listen. He went on folding the clothes  
he had just brought back from the laundromat, wondering how he was going  
to blot out the emotional pain that threatened to engulf him. It was  
too bad that today was Saturday and he had no duties to occupy him.   
Later, he'd take Dief for a run in the woods, but for now the rooming-house  
where he was staying until he could find an apartment in Whitehorse offered  
no distractions beyond the television set in the lounge.  
  
Well, there was always the public library. As he laid away the last  
of the underwear and closed the drawer, there was a knock on the door.  
Dief sprang down off the bed and faced the door expectantly, his tail  
waving so fast it created a current of air in the room.  
  
Wondering who it could be--his colleagues at the detachment office were  
all married men and presumably busy on the weekends--he reached for the  
door, opened it, and stood dumbfounded.  
  
"Ray!"  
  
"Yep. Had a helluva time getting here, what with changing planes  
and all, but it's over now."  
  
Ray grinned as he came into the room. Fraser shut the door behind him,  
still unable to believe his eyes. "I had no idea you were coming  
up. Why didn't you tell me? I'm delighted to see you, of course."  
  
"Yeah, well--" Ray pulled off the wool muffler around his neck,  
started unbuttoning his coat. "I wanted to surprise you. And to  
show you these." He pulled a sheaf of forms from his jacket and  
handed them to Fraser, who immediately recognized them as the application  
forms for landed immigrant status in Canada.  
  
Stunned, he raised his eyes from the papers to Ray. "You're going  
to live here?"  
  
"That's the idea. Benny, not only did I miss you like hell, I just  
couldn't hack it in Chicago anymore. Sure, I was getting treated better  
than I ever did before at the station, but all the fun was gone. It  
just wasn't the same without you. And," Ray slid out of his coat,  
tossed it on the armchair next the window, "you know, I got to thinking  
about what I did in that other life. I said goodbye to the family, left  
the city behind, and went to another country to find you again."  
  
Fraser nodded, not wanting to interrupt. He was beginning to feel unbelievably  
happy--as happy as he'd been sad just a few short minutes ago.  
  
"And you know something? I have it a lot easier in this life.   
I can E-mail Ma every day and call her every night. If anything happens  
I can get on a plane and be back in Chicago in a matter of hours. She's  
got a part-time home help coming in every day, courtesy of Medicare,  
and the rest of the family there at night. That house always felt more  
like hers than mine anyway."  
  
Ray moved closer. "And you know what else? It occurred to me--what  
if Ange and I were still married, and she got a hotshot job in another  
city? She'd move, and she'd expect me to move with her, even if it meant  
leaving Ma. You and I can't get married, but we can live together as  
if we were. If it wouldn't create a problem for you, that is."  
  
"No, it won't be a problem," Fraser said. He pulled Ray to  
him, unable to believe that he was holding him in his arms again. "We'll  
find you a job, we'll get an apartment or a house, we'll--"  
  
Ray stopped him with a long kiss.  
  
When it ended, Fraser's voice shook slightly as he said, "So it  
isn't the end of the season for us after all."  
  
"No, Benny. It's the beginning of a whole new one."  
  
  
 ****

The End  


 

* * *

****

Glossary  
  


  
**Antoninus Pius--** Known as one of the five �good� emperors,  
Antoninus was chosen by Hadrian to succeed him (A.D. 138-161), as Hadrian  
had no children with his nominal wife, Sabina.He also built  
a wall in Britannia, although it is less well known than Hadrian�s.  
 **Bracae-** -Woolen trousers worn by barbarian men.  
 **Brenna--** No more in love with him than he was with her (although  
she liked him as a friend and respected him as a comrade in arms) **,  
** beautiful, red-haired Brenna married Beinnebecause it was  
time for her to have a child or two. Beinne�s relationship with  
Remus fazed her not at all, as it left her with plenty of time to pursue  
her own interests--serving on the tribal council in the morningand  
racing around the countryside on her favorite horse in the afternoon.  
 **Brigantes-** -The tribe to which Beinne belonged, named for the Goddess  
Brigantia.They mostly lived, fought, and traveled in the area  
around Eboracum, although they were known to range further north and  
west from time to time. Their history was as checkered as their clothes,  
since a former queen, Cartimandua (circa A.D. 60) betrayed her own people  
to the Romans.  
 **Civis Romanus sum--** I am a Roman citizen.  
 **Diocles** \--The champion racing driver of Rome, Diocles retired in  
A.D. 150 at the age of 42, after 3,000 wins.  
 **Eboracum--** Known  
to the Romans as Eboracum and to later Viking invaders as Jarvik, the  
city of York began its existence as a Roman military installation at  
the junction of the Rivers Ouse and Foss. Eboracum housed the Ninth Legion  
(Hispana), which departed about A.D. 120. The Sixth Legion then took  
over the military post.  
 **Flavian Ampitheatre** \--The name the  
ancient inhabitants of Rome gave to the huge arena we now call the Colosseum.  
 **Friend** \--To the ancients, �friendship� meant that two  
men were friends in every way, including sexually. Only men could be  
friends, because only men were considered to have sufficient intelligence  
to understand such a concept. A man had only one friend of this kind  
at a time, however.  
 **Hadrian** \--Often called one of the five  
�good� emperors, this able warrior, statesman, and philosopher  
gave Rome the best government it had ever experienced (A.D. 117-138).  
A trendsetter (he was the first emperor to wear a beard), he was also  
openly gay. When his young lover Antinoüs drowned in a boating  
accident, Hadrian was said to have �wept like a woman.�  
 **Hadrian�s Wall** \--Hadrian visited Britannia in A.D. 122 and  
decreed the building of the wall to mark the northernmost border of the  
Roman Empire. Stretching from the Tyne to Solway Firth, it was intended  
to contain the barbarian tribes that inhabited the northern part of the  
island of Albion. Building the wall kept the Roman frontier troops occupied  
for a good 20 years.  
 **Lollius Urbicus** \--Despite his frivolous-sounding  
name, Lollius Urbicus, first Antonine governor of Britain, must have  
been quite a guy. Born around A.D. 100, he helped Hadrian put  
down the Jewish rebellion, commanded a legion on the Danube, and served  
as governor of Lower Germany. His reward was the highest honor of the  
imperial career ladder: the governorship of Britannia (A.D. 139-142).  
 **Marked for sacrifice** \--The fate that might have befallen Beinne  
actually did fall on the unfortunate individual known to modern scholars  
as Lindow Man, whose corpse was discovered at Lindow Moss, Cheshire,  
in 1984. He had been ritually murdered in the first century A.D. and  
thrown into the fen, which preserved him to the present day.  
 **Mithras** \--Winged  
Persian deity, associated with bull sacrifice, worshipped by Roman soldiers  
of the officer class. Mithraism, which excluded women, was a mystery  
cult with rites known only to initiates. Services were conducted in  
underground temples, the ruins of which have been found at numerous  
sites, including Carrowburgh, near Hadrian�s Wall, and the financial  
district known as �The City,� in the heart of London.  
 **No fear of death** \--The Druids taught that existence was an endless  
cycle of birth, death, and rebirth. The Celts believed that after the  
physical body died, the soul passed into another body. Death in their  
view was merely a point of transformation.  
 **Past-life regression** \--The  
book Fraser and Ray used was _How to Uncover Your Past Lives_ , by  
Ted Andrews, Llewellyn Publications, copyright 1992. The techniques  
in the story are based on chapter 7.  
 **Paterfamilias** \--The father  
of the family, head of the Roman household.  
 **Patrician** \--In  
ancient Rome, a person of high birth, an aristocrat.  
 **Pilum** \--The  
heavy javelin used by Roman legionaries in battle.  
 **Plebeian-** -One  
of the common people of ancient Rome.  
 **Principia** \--The headquarters building in which Roman army officers  
had their offices.  
 **Stanley Ray Kowalski** \--On learning the true  
state of affairs between Vecchio and Stella, Kowalski wangled a few days�  
leave and went to Florida to see his ex-wife. He scarcely recognized  
the woman who opened her apartment door to him, wearing a gardenia in  
her hair and a flower-patterned sarong that looked great against her  
tan. He soon discovered there was nothing underneath the sarong. As  
Stella had apparently left her inhibitions, as well as her ambition,  
in Chicago, Kowalski saw no need to return there either.  
 **Sugar  
of Lead**\--The Romans added sugar of lead (lead acetate) to their wine  
to correct the sometimes bitter taste. Ingested in larger amounts, it  
tastes sweet and is fatal.  
 **Vitellius** \--When Vitellius arrived  
in Beinne�s home territory, the tribal council declared him a free  
man and adopted him. He grew up to become a skilled metalworker who  
specialized in making weapons for the tribe.  
 **Zukolius** \--During  
their life together in Britannia, Beinne and Remus encountered Zukolius  
twice more, and on the second occasion chased him across the sea to Gaul,  
where he stayed. His descendants became known as the Franks.  
 **The  
End**\--Since it appears that �Call of the Wild� was the end  
of the season for _due South_ (permanently, alas), Rupert Rouge  
is declaring this story to be the end of his season, too. (You can check  
out his DS stories and his biography on his home page, when He Finally  
Gets It Up.) Rupert plans to change his name, dye his hair, and starting  
writing gay novels. He hopes you�ve had as much fun reading his  
 _due South_ stories as he�s had writing them.

Copyright January 1999 by Rupert Rouge on all original story content.  
Not meant to infringe on copyrights held by Alliance Communications,  
or any other copyright holders for DUE SOUTH. Please do not reproduce  
for anything other than personal reading use without written consent  
of the author. Comments welcome at.  



End file.
